The Zanthodon MEGAPACK ™: The Complete 5-Book Series (79 page)

Through the bushes came a fearsome sight. It was the size of a small automobile, and covered with shaggy long fur of reddish tint. Its huge, heavy head, was crowned with an immense spread of horns, like those of some super-bull. Which is precisely what it was—an aurochs, a prehistoric ancestor of the buffalo and the bison.

Sighting the man, it lowered its head, tore at the turf with one hoofed foot, then, gathering its strength, hunching its heavy shoulders, it burst into a thunderous charge and came down upon the lone man like an avalanche of living flesh.

Kâiradine Redbeard sprang out into the open, so as to divert the charging beast from the place where the young woman crouched in fear beneath her bush. The huge aurochs swerved, to charge down upon him.

For a long, breathless moment, the Pirate Prince stood as if taunting the enraged bull with his presence, waiting to make certain that the beast’s charge was wide of the place where the woman was sheltered. And, as the great aurochs hurtled upon him, Zarys of Zar clenched both hands against her bosom, as if to still the tumult of her beating heart. Never had she seen such desperate courage, such rash foolhardiness, as the man she had humbled and humiliated, mocked and laughed at, risked life and limb to draw the charging aurochs from her.

At the last possible moment, the swarthy buccaneer sprang to one side—but not quite soon enough, for the sharp tip of one of the huge horns raked his forearm, ripping the flimsy material of his blouse. Blood spurted crimson in the daylight and Zarys flinched to see it.

Kâiradine stumbled, thrown off-balance by the impact of the blow, but; swift as a striking cobra, he thrust out his sword. Like a bull fighter in one of the arenas of Spain, he sank his blade to the hilt between the eyes of the giant aurochs, transfixing its brain.

It was a lucky stroke, a chance stroke, but he struck true and good. The bull hurtled past where Kâiradine stood staggering. It tore the blade from his grip as it thundered on. Then it halted, stumbled, fell to its knees, rolled over on one side, kicked feebly a time or two, coughed a gout of scarlet blood.

And died.

In the aching silence that followed this noisy, tumultuous scene, the Zarian woman released the breath she had been holding in a long sigh of tremulous relief. She was pale as milk; now, under the stare of his dark eyes, she flushed crimson like a faint-hearted virgin.

No words were spoken.

And then the Barbary Pirate limped over to the enormous corpse and slowly and laboriously drew his sword from its skull. He felt numb all over, and shaken, but a feeling of masculine triumph welled up within him. He turned to the woman, who by now had risen to her feet and who stood staring at him wide-eyed. In truth, his feat seemed almost miraculous, for the prehistoric buffalo weighed tons and the blade of Kâiradine Redbeard was no more than a slender saber, easily snapped in twain.

Their eyes locked.

He limped toward her, the blood-soaked sword dangling from his hand. They exchanged no words. He thrust the sword in the grassy turf, bent, caught her by the shoulders and flung her prone on the ground. Then he bestraddled her, and with strong hands ripped asunder the flimsy garment she wore. Her naked breasts thrust free of their imprisonment, and her slim legs parted as he ripped and tore the cloth.

He clasped her roughly in his arms, hot lips searing her face and bosom with fiery impetuous kisses, as he claimed her, as he took her. Nor did Zarys struggle, but lay limp and unresisting in the grasp of his powerful arms, while emotions hitherto unknown raged through her heart and shook her to the roots of her soul.

Zarys had known many men, as Empress and as woman. She had taken love hungrily and given herself casually, despising the soft, effete courtiers who had shared her life for an hour, a night, a week. But never had she known a man like unto the Redbeard: fierce, passionate, ungentle, even brutal in his lovemaking, a man who took rather than gave, a man whose tireless virility left her drained, shaken, exhausted, yet more deeply and richly fulfilled and satisfied than had any other man before him.

They rested naked in each other’s arms, panting, dewed with sweat, breathing heavily. Drowsily, he drew her to him and she flowed against him unresistingly, letting him drink slow, deep kisses from her luscious mouth.

He fell asleep with his head pillowed on her flawless breasts. But Zarys lay awake a long time, holding her man, stroking tenderly with the tips of her fingers the hair that drew at his temples, staring dreamily up at the sky, and thinking her own secret thoughts.

After a time, she, too, slept. And dreamed restful, happy dreams.…

CHAPTER 13

WHEN THE WORLD SHOOK

When Hurok and Gorah turned the corner and came so unexpectedly upon the Apeman, Hurok growled and bristled, hefting his heavy stone axe as the Neanderthal thrust his spear toward his breast. Without difficulty, Hurok batted the spear aside and swung his weapon to crunch into the hairy side of his adversary.

Blood spurted; ribs snapped. With a surprised grunt the huge male went down, but there were three more in single file behind him. As Hurok sprang to engage the second, Gorah saw the third male lift a heavy rock and swing it high to bash her mate’s brains out.

She dodged, snatched up the spear the first Apeman had let fall, and drove it into the throat of the male who held high the heavy stone. He went down with a crash, and the fourth turned and fled hastily, believing the two to be only the advance guard of a larger number, since they fought with such ferocity and recklessness.

By this time, Hurok’s mighty axe had cloven in the skull of his second foe, and the brief but furious battle was over and done. Hurok growled and bristled, gazing around for more males to kill. Seeing none, he turned to inquire after Gorah and to see if she had been injured in the tussle. To his surprise and gratification, he saw her plant her heel against the breast of the male she had slain, in order to pull free the spear she had picked up.

“Gorah is not hurt,” she replied breathlessly, in answer to her mate’s question.

“Hurok is proud of Gorah, that she fought by his side and did not flee in fright as many females would have done,” grunted the Apeman. “And he is proud of Gorah, that she has killed in the defense of her mate.”

They embraced briefly. Then, adding to their store of weapons from those that had belonged to the slain, they continued to make their way through the jumble of fallen rocks and massive boulders. Although Hurok was alert and wary to the possibility, they did not encounter any further opposition. Erelong, they found themselves in a part of the island which Hurok vaguely remembered from days gone by, when he had been a chieftain of the cave kingdom.

He peered, blinking nearsightedly, down at the scene. It was a sloping beach of hard gray sand strewn with rocks, washed by the shallow tides of the Sogar-Jad. Nudging Gorah, who crouched at his side, he inquired in guttural tones:

“Is this not the place-of-boats? Hurok seems to recall it from former memory.”

The female indicated that it was. This, then, was the place where the Korians had launched their brief, illtimed, disastrous attempt at an invasion of the mainland, which attempt had ended so gruesomely under the thundering feet of the stampeding thantors. Few, if any, of the Apemen had returned to Kor alive and unharmed from that fiasco, in which Uruk, High Chief of Kor, had himself fallen. But there might still be a few dugouts on the shore. Hurok discussed this with Gorah, and she reluctantly agreed it was worth a try.

“If Hurok and Gorah can find a dugout here, and not have to return to where Hurok left his own craft, then they can evade the neccessity of doing battle with those who guard Hurok’s boat farther down the shoreline,” he grunted.

With great care, he prowled through the rocks, seeing no sign of any guards posted here to protect the dugouts—for, after all, why would any be needed to guard them?

In the mouth of a low cave, high up the slant of shore, he indeed found to his delighted satisfaction a number of dugouts drawn under cover to protect them from the elements. Summoning his mate to his side with a low call, Hurok dragged the best of the dugout canoes down to the waterline; held it steady while Gorah clambered in, shoved off, and dragged himself in beside her.

Both plied the crude oars, maneuvering the clumsy boat into the current.

Before long they saw, with relief, the craggy silhouette of the island fade in the misty haze behind them, and naught but the open waters of the sea before their prow.

* * * *

Even encumbered by their prisoners, Niema the Aziru and her young friends, Jorn the Hunter and Yualla of Sothar, made good time crossing the plain. Once they were within the jungles, of course, their pace was slowed by many obstructions. With the magnificent black woman taking the lead, they moved through the dense thickets of underbrush, wove a path between the boles of mighty trees, and found at length a jungle aisle that seemed to lead in the direction they wished.

Here and there, they found the unmistakable tracks of the tribes all going in the same direction. Niema probably did not intend to accompany her young charges all the way to a meeting with the Thandarians and the Sotharians, but to see them far enough along their journey so as to be assured of their safety. In her heart, the amazon desired to meet at last the young warrior, Zuma, whom she knew to be still searching for her. But she had developed a fondness for the Cro-Magnon youngsters, being a warmhearted and impulsive young woman, and knew that, for the moment, they needed her more than Zuma did. For the two youngsters to have kept watch over the wily Xask and woeful little Murg would have been flirting with danger, and the Aziru woman firmly resolved to see them safely along their journey.

They could travel no faster, however, than little Murg would travel, and the limbs of Murg were thin and crooked and easily wearied. He was forever tripping over roots, falling down, or becoming entangled in vines or thorn bushes. He got out of breath as often as he got a thorn in his foot or a pebble in his sandal, and that was
quite
often.

Niema quickly became exasperated with the whimpering, wheezing, limping, complaining little fellow. She longed to take him behind a tree and put her long knife into him, if only to put him out of his misery. Jorn, of course, was too squeamish to permit her this liberty, if only because he intended to bring Murg before Garth of Sothar for judgment for his crime in attempting to ravish Yualla while she slept, if for nothing else.

Privately, Niema thought that Jorn was a bit too noble of heart for his own good, but she kept this opinion to herself. And smiled understandingly, whenever he said something of this nature, to see the adoring expression in the melting gaze Yualla turned upon her young gallant.

Niema was all woman, and understood the hearts of her sisters under the skin. Still, she thought Murg an unneccessary burden and wished something would come along to eat him up.

* * * *

As for Xask all this while, the former vizier of Zar was maintaining his silence, making himself as ingratiting and as unobtrusive as possible. He kept an expression of genial, affable, friendly cooperation as best he could, and never once got in the way, made difficulties, or tried to escape.

But all the time, his clever, ingenious brain was at work, striving to think of a way out of this predicament. While Xask greatly doubted that Eric Carstairs or the others would go so far as to have him executed, he did not wish to spend the rest of his days as a slave in Thandar. Not when he could escape and return to a life of ease, importance and influence back in the Scarlet City of Zar—or whatever of it was still standing after its god Zorgazor, the gigantic tyrannosaurus, had gone on his mad rampage.…

Without appearing to do so, he took every opportunity to overhear the conversation between his three captors, and to watch and study their every move. The youth and his jungle sweetheart were obviously madly in love: they walked along the jungle trail holding hands, murmuring endearments in low tones to each other, paying little heed to anything else. It was safe enough for Xask to dismiss them from his mind, for they were a million miles away, and would not have noticed whether he and Murg were in the vicinity or not.

Niema was something else, an unknown factor in his wily calculations. He tried to draw her out with seemingly innocent questions, but she replied in short, brusque terms and his attempts at conversation soon lapsed. The beautiful black woman intrigued, fascinated, even mystified the vizier, for her Presence indicated the existence of an unknown race in Zanthodon which he had hitherto never encountered.

Since she or the Cro-Magnon youngsters made no reference to how she had come to be with them, or even mentioned Zuma, she remained a mystery to Xask. But that her woodcraft and wariness were of the first order, he was quick to note. She and she alone was the one whose vigilance he must elude.

But even Niema must, at times, sleep. And it was for that Xask waited patiently—that or some unforeseeable interruption which might afford him the opportunity to escape from his captors.

His moment came even quicker than Xask could have hoped.

One moment they were striding alone, single-filed, through the jungle aisle, with Niema at the front, Xask and Murg in the middle, and Jorn and Yualla in the rear, when it happened.

The whiff of sulphur visited their nostrils, cutting through the rank odors of jungle flowers, rotting leaves, rancid mud.

The the earth jumped under their feet
.

As a horse quivers her hide to dislodge an annoying fly, the ground trembled underfoot. Was it an earthquake, or the ponderous, stalking tread of some mighty predator?

Jorn gasped; Yualla cried out in fear; Murg screeched—

The earth shuddered violently underfoot! Noise roared in their ears, as trees came crashing down, tearing through brush and clinging branches, to thump against the shivering earth.

Niema stood, arms akimbo, legs wide, feet braced against the violence of the quake.

A Jurassic conifer broke in half, and toppled toward her.

Jorn yelped and sprang to pull the frozen girl aside.

And Xask whipped about and plunged into the thick brush, with Murg at his very heels.

CHAPTER 14

FIRE MOUNTAIN SPEAKS

When Kâiradine Redbeard and Zarys of Zar awoke, it was to find the whole world changed about them.

To put it simply, they were in love.

The Empress of Zar had never known a man like Kâiradine and could hardly have dreamed that such a man existed. For the men of her race were either oily-tongued, self-seeking courtiers, ready to flatter and lie and bribe to achieve their ends, or cruel, clever men of greed and ambition. The Prince of the Barbary Pirates, in contrast to the men she had known, was a bold and swaggering buccaneer, accustomed to taking by force that which he desired, and holding it by the strength and skill of his sword arm and the daring and cunning of his mind.

Zarys had never been taken by force before, and found she rather liked it. The smooth, diminutive, effete lovers she had known she had felt contempt for; now, at last, she met a strong man rather like herself…but even stronger.